


Till There Was You

by DemonDean10



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist John, Dancing, F/M, Fake Posh John, Fluff, Gardener George, Hairdresser Ringo, Kinda sugar baby John, M/M, No Beatles AU, Rory and The Hurricanes, Slow Burn, Teacher Paul, The Beatles didn't happen, Wings Band, rich people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonDean10/pseuds/DemonDean10
Summary: Liverpool, 1967.Paul McCartney and John Lennon never met, and they grew to be very different people that those we know.Paul is a teacher at his old school and plays in clubs at night with his band Wings.George Harrison plays with him and is the the gardener of the noble family, the Ainsleys. Oh, and he's having an affair with a married man.Ringo is that married man. He and his wife, Mo, have a hair salon called Billy's Shears and they're very successful. They love each other, but Ringo can't let go of George.Meanwhile, John Lennon is a free artist. Married to a Baroness nearly tree times his age, but free. He had no worries and no need to leave the manor he calls home.Except a meeting with an arts teacher at a party could very well change that.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea from that interview of John in the 70s where he says that if the Beatles hadn't happened he probably would have married some rich woman (or man) and been an artist. Sugar Baby John lol. I have wanted to do this Beatles didn't happen for a long time but I couldn't figure out what to do with John, I tried him as a composer from New Zealand, a fashion designer, everything really. But this one's pretty fun and I really have a story for this one. 
> 
> I hope you like it and leave a comment, or kudo, or both. 
> 
> The plot will really start next chapter, but this is an introduction.

“Your eyes on your own paper, Madden.” Said Professor McCartney. His students were currently taking a test over Renaissance Period art. 

 

Will Madden, the student, snapped his eyes away from the lad’s next to him and sheepishly grinned. “Sorry, Mr. Macca.”

 

Paul looked up from the essays he was grading. He raised a stern eyebrow but sounded amused as he spoke, “What did I say about calling me that?”

 

Another student piped up, “That you loved it?”

 

Paul shook his head, “No, Finnigan.”

 

Honestly, he was glad his students liked him but his colleagues already looked down upon him due to his age, he didn’t want to be the teacher that caused student impertinence. 

 

Paul was 25 years old and had been a teacher at the Liverpool Institute for two years now. He’d gotten his teaching certificate at the wishes of his father, James McCartney, who had passed away when Paul turned 20. Paul liked being a teacher, especially since it was the easy topic of Art. He’d always been good at art when he had been a student. 

 

He hadn’t immediately gone to college after getting out of the Innie because he had wanted to pursue a career in music but it had led to nowhere with great paychecks. Still, he had a little rock n’ roll band that played the clubs at nights. Wings, it was called. 

 

A lot of his students knew about Wings, though they really weren’t old enough to be going into the clubs. It made him even cooler in their eyes, and many time they had asked him to play guitar in their lessons, but he was yet to budge. 

 

His friend George played with him, on guitar and backup vocals. They did covers but also some of Paul’s originals. Those were quite popular with the locals. They weren’t magnificent, and certainly not great enough to attract the attention of any producers, but Paul liked them. 

 

On the drums there was Pete Best, who’d been playing with them since they were teenagers yet somehow still keeping a distance. They got along, and the band’s main place of playing was The Cabash Club, Pete’s mum’s club. They played there Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Then Friday and Saturdays they played The Cavern, an honestly better club. That’s why Wings played there when Paul didn’t have school the day after, he refused to teach teenagers hangover. 

 

It was good life Paul had for himself. He had a good job and his guitar on the side. And a girl, a good girl called Dot. The two of them were engaged, had been for years but had yet to choose a date. Neither of the minded, they were in love but still felt themselves to be too young for kids and marriage. 

  
  


Richard Starkey laughed as his client told him about her kids. He was giving her a much needed hair makeover and some advice over how to keep them under control. He should know, having a toddler himself. Zak, was his name, and Maureen, his mother’s. Ringo and Maureen had been married for five years now, and had owned their little but successful ‘Billy’s Shears’, a hair salon, for just as long. 

 

He looked over to where she was nipping at an old man’s hair and smiled. She smiled back. The two truly were in love, but someone else ran through Richard’s mind. 

 

He had met George Harrison in 1960, at the Cavern Club. George played with Paul McCartney and his Wings band. They were okay then, but they’d gotten really good. Richard, or Ringo as he preferred on stage, played on a band too. Rory and Hurricanes, played with them for years. They played Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays at the Cavern Club. Occasionally, Ringo would play with Wings when their drummer Pete was ill or just not there. 

 

It had been one of those nights when he and George had gotten drunk together and...slept together. Ringo had been mortified and he had avoided the younger man for weeks, but eventually he had decided that he was going to move on and pretend nothing had happened. But George wouldn’t let him, not his George. George kept trying to talk to him over what happened, saying that it hadn’t been a mistake, that they both had felt something. 

 

And the problem had been that, George wasn’t wrong. Of course he wasn’t. But Ringo was married! In the end, though, George won him over with a song. A song. That had been two years ago now, and the two kept their affair good and secret. Only two people knew, Paul McCartney and Rory Storm. 

 

“Everything alright, Mr. S?” Asked Phillipa, the mum. 

 

Richard snapped himself out of his thoughts and smiled at her through the mirror, “All’s good, sorry Pippa.” He offered a charming smile that she returned. “Now, how do you feel about beehives?”

  
  


George Harrison hummed to himself as he pulled some weeds. He was a gardener, a well loved gardener, for the prestiged Ainsleys. Nobility, they were. The Baron had died years ago, well before George got there, but the Baroness Glyn remained and she was a very nice old lady. George had become an apprentice to the old gardener, Simon, when he had been fourteen and in need of money to help out his family. And now he was twenty four and still going. 

 

Everyone that came to the Ainsley Manor complimented the gardens, and they were a point of pride for George. He had no assistant, every tree he planted himself, every flower he watered. He took care of the koi fish in the pond, and kept the gnomes clean.

 

He had brought Ringo to the gardens before, and the older man had been amazed. Many pictures had been taken and George was told that they were hanged at the salon. George never went to the salon, it didn’t seem right to either of them that he go to the place Ringo owned with his wife. 

 

But back to business, George was a damn good gardener, the best in Liddypool and beyond. That’s why Baroness Glyn, Mrs. Anne Ainsley, cared for him so. She told him he was a like a son, even though she had her own. George liked Tommy, Baron Glyn, he was a pretty chill man. Already in his forties and really posh, but a good, decent man. 

 

Now the Baroness’ husband...that was another matter completely. 

 

George had never actually met John Ainsley nee. Leymon, or something. Nothing worth remembering if the sod had changed it for a woman’s name. Then again, the woman was British nobility. That’s why George didn’t like this John. The man was in his twenties and married to a woman about to celebrate her seventieth year. He was an ‘artist’ and clearly was only there for the money.

 

George had seen him a couple of times, having dinner with the lady in the gardens. He was always wearing glasses and had some stain of paint or chalk or whatever. Baroness had always been laughing with him so george sometimes figured he wasn’t that bad, but then he’d hear about him snapping at some Lord or something and scoffed in contempt. That John was no good for Anne Ainsley, she was a kind hearted woman, almost a mother to George, and John the Artists was just draining her dry. 

  
  


John was gently shook awake with a thin hand decorated with expensive rings. 

 

“Johnny, darling it's nearing noon.” The owner of the hand, Anne Ainsley, Baroness Glyn, said. 

 

Her young husband fake groaned and buried his face in his pillow. 

 

He succeeded in making her laugh, “Come now, I’ve had breakfast brought up.”

 

John opened a suspicious eye, “My favourite?”

 

Anne grinned, “Of course.” She was an old woman, had lived through two wars and been married twice now. But she had a sparkle in her eye and a spring in her walk. 

 

John sat up and let his bare chest be shown. The two had had quite the night last night, if John did say so himself. He had no qualms about sleeping with a woman nearly three times his age, Anne was fantastic. The two had been married for six years in a couple of months, and John loved it. At first, yes, he had seeked her for the money. He had just finished Art College and needed a wealthy sponsor that would keep him comfortable for the rest of his life and let him do his art. He’d found Anne who, somehow, loved his caricatures and his humour. John had been happy to be taken as a lover and that’s it, but when marriage had been put in the tables had wasted no time in saying yes. 

 

His friends, Stu and Cyn, had been confused. John had always mocked the rich and enjoyed being out with girls and boys and more girls, why tie himself down to some posh lady?

 

John had asked himself that too, but he’d figured it out by now. He could do his art all day with no fear of starving, and the person that paid for the art actually quite loved it. And Anne loved him too, and he loved her. They weren’t in love, after all John could never replace the Baron, but they were best friends. Best friends that had a lot of sex. Man, that woman had an amazing stamina for her age. 

 

John smiled at Anne as he stood up, she was a truly amazing woman and John wished no ill on her. He knew what the other socialites said, called him a gold digger and Anne a cougar, but he knew what they had. They were married and they didn’t give a crap about what the world said about it. 

 

Tommy, the Baroness’ son, didn’t care either. He was way older than John but he hadn’t objected to his presence in his mother’s live, in fact he’d encouraged it. He, and Anne of course, had taught him all about the posh life. How to hold a spoon, a tea cup, different types of wines and their respective goblets, how to dance a waltz, how to hold a conversation without insulting someone (even though John still failed at those at almost every party) and even how to play piano. Tommy had taught him, just like the Baron had taught him. 

 

John was a part of the family, through and through, and he was happy not to leave his bubble. He barely let the house, only to accompany his wife at occasions. He painted and drew and painted and drew, it was a good life. And if he sometimes missed the kind of life he might had led if he hadn't married for money at the age of twenty one, he never said. 


	2. The Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me while jiji, I hope u like it. Please leave kudos and a comment if u do.

“I don’t know, George. It’s not really my crowd, and I promised Dot we’d do something Sunday.” 

 

George Harrison sighed at his friend. They’d just finished playing their set at the Cabash Club and they were washing off the sweat. Earlier that day, Thursday, George had been called to the house by the Baroness. She, with a kind smile, had invited him to the ball that was being hosted in honour of her seventieth birthday. Then she had told him that he was welcome to bring a girlfriend or any other plus one. George had been elated, he’d never actually been invited to one of the celebrations. He lived at the house, but ‘servant’ didn’t get invited to parties with the rich folks. 

 

Initially, he’d called and asked Ringo, but Mo was going away to visit her mother that Sunday and Rings had to watch over Zak. Understanding but still feeling disappointed, George told him they’d do something another time. So now, ‘single’ as he was, Paul was his only option. “Come ‘eah, Paul. Don’t be like this.”

 

The teacher ran a towel through his hair, “Dot-”

 

“Has lots of friends that can be with her, I’ve got no one.” George grabbed a t-shirt from his bag, “It’ll be pathetic if I’m just standing there, surrounded by all them posh people.”

 

Paul looked at his friend, “Can’t you just not go?”

 

George looked flabbergasted, “Of course I’ve got t’go, Paul!” He scoffed, “I’ve never been invited to one of these, and it’s the lady’s birthday, I can’t just miss it.”

 

His older friend shrugged on his jacket, “Alright then, I’ll tell Dot.” He raised a finger, “But y’own me one, got it?”

 

George smiled, “Ta, mate. You won’t regret it.”

 

Paul chuckled, “I’d better not.”

 

* * *

 

John held his cup of tea to his mouth, with the saucer of course. He and Anne were having tea in the back garden, talking about little things. His glasses fogged as the steam hit them and he cursed. 

 

“ _ John _ .” Came Anne’s stern voice. She raised a playful eyebrow at him. 

 

John smiled as he took them off and started to wipe at them, “You didn’t seem t’mind my language last night.” He made lewd face. 

 

She giggled and choked on her tea. Then she tutted as he looked at his glasses, “Oh, pass those here.” His shirt had chalk dust in it and it was getting all over the glasses.

 

Gladly, he passed them over and Anne started to clean them with one of the tea towels. 

 

John closed his eyes against the sun. “You hear from Tommy lately?”

 

Anne nodded, “Yes, he and the children are currently in Scotland. They will arrive here Saturday.” Her son’s wife had died two years ago during the birth of their third daughter, Miranda, and Tommy had no interest in finding another bride. Anne had felt as such after her Gustav had passed away, but eventually she’d changed her mind and hence, John was here today. 

 

John smiled, “I’m glad, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen the girls.” The eldest was 16, merely ten years younger than John himself. They got along well, almost like siblings. Her name was Annie, named after the Baroness, then there was Lillian who was 10, and finally young Miranda. The younger two didn’t know that John was married to their grandmother, they just thought he was a painter that was there all the time. Not that far from the truth. 

 

Anne offered him his glasses, “Here, darling. Be careful not to get paint on them again later, please.” Last time he’d dropped them on a pot of white paint, and now there were white spots all over the black frames. He had to get new ones before Saturday, or else people would talk. 

 

John took them gratefully, “Ta, m’dear.” He grabbed a biscuit and moaned as he took a bite. “Heard you invited some of the servants to the party.” John was glad, that meant Peter, his ‘valet (that John didn’t actually used to dress him because he was a grown ass man and didn’t need a damn valet)’ would be invited. Peter Boyle was a mate of his, they shared funny (and vulgar) stories in the mornings and nights when they saw each other. 

 

Anne sipped her tea, “I figured they deserved it, after all they are instrumental in preparing the manor.”

 

John coughed, “And the other guests?” They’d surely turn their heads away at their presence.

 

Anne put her saucer down and took a deep breath. She smiled, “Fuck them.”

 

John burst out laughing and raised his cup, “Cheers.”

 

* * *

 

Paul looked at himself in the mirror. It was the day of the dance and he was regretting it already. He was wearing the suit he’d worn at his father’s funeral and then hid in his wardrobe, it was bringing him unwanted memories. But for George, he’d do it. And who knows, maybe he’d find someone interesting to talk to. Someone with money that would be interested in his music...No. He was an art teacher and he liked it. He had a good steady job with a regular paycheck, playing music for a living was off the cards. 

 

Paul adjusted his tie and messed with his hair, it was getting long. Finally, he heard a knock on his door and knew it had to be George. “Coming!” He called. 

 

* * *

 

Fucking hell, the house was huge. Huge. Enormous. Gigantic. And the only people who lived there was an old Baroness, her husband, and their few servants. 

 

George laughed at his gaping friend as he stopped his small car. He’d bought it a few months ago after saving money for years and years and then had it painted red. Ringo loved it.

 

Paul kept on gaping as they left the car, “I can’t believe you work here, mate.”

 

George gave his keys to the valet parking...parker? And walked over to his friend, “Yeah, I can’t believe I’ve never brought you here. Ringo loves it too.”

 

They followed the long line of guests into the house and into a great ballroom, decorated with flowers, banners, and many tables filled with food. George grinned brightly and immediately headed over one filled with biscuits. Paul, desperate not to be left alone, followed after him, bumping into various fancy-dressed men and women on the way. 

 

They stayed near the table for the next thirty minutes, pretending they fitted in amongst all the high end guests. Eventually however, George spotted the Baroness coming from a highway, people greeting her from all sides. He noticed that she was alone, her husband nowhere to be seen, that bum. 

 

“Come on, Paul. I want you to meet the Lady.” He grabbed his friend’s sleeve and dragged him towards her. 

 

Just as they arrived, so did her young husband. He had a stain of dark blue paint on his neck.

 

John slid into the small space beside her with minimal grace and pressed a kiss to her cheek as he grabbed her hand. “Sorry, m’dear.” He whispered into her ear, and for the benefit of the unamused crowd around them said, “I had to finish your birthday present, after all.” He made sure to poshen his accent, as he’d been asked to do since the day he got married. He didn’t mind much, he loved to fake accents. 

 

Anne pinched his bum in rebuke, but smiled after his statement. “Oh? And did you?”

 

John walked further into the room and pointed to where a few servant were dragging in a large painting covered in a silk sheet. Paul and George watched as he stepped into the middle of the room and raised his voice.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please.” He said with raised arms, “As you are all well aware, in this day we celebrate the birthday of my beloved Anne.” He paused for applause, “And I, for one, wished for her to receive something truly worthy of the occasion.” And with this he pointed with both hands towards the painting and the sheet was dropped. 

 

Everyone gasped, George and Paul included, even those who hated John Ainsley had to admit that the artwork was beautiful to behold.

 

It was Anne, of course. And she was sitting in a fine chair, surrounded by many cats all with their own collars. John wasn’t in the painting, but Tommy was and he gasped at the marvelous recreation of his form in oil paint. A portrait of the late Baron hung in the back, and for those who looked close enough a set of paint brushes could be seen resting in a stand near one of the cats, representing John. the audience applauded and none dared show discomfort as the young man kissed his wife right on the lips, there for everyone to see. 

 

Paul frowned, “Wait, hold on, is that-” At first he’d figured he was her son but...guess not.

 

“Her husband, John Ainsley.” Said George, “Yeah.”

 

His friend looked at the couple, “How old is he?” The man had to be older than he looked, but even then...he’d still have decades of difference. 

 

George sighed, “Twenty-six, if you’ll believe that.” He grabbed his friend’s arm again, “Come on, let’s meet them.”

 

But by the time they reached her again, John was gone. Still, Anne offered them a wide smile as she spotted them, “George!” To his immense surprise, she even hugged him and he dared kiss her cheek. She turned to look at Paul, “And who is this, your brother?”

 

“Almost, I’ve known Paul since we were both kids.” George explained.

 

Paul smiled charmingly but inside was panicking, he didn’t know how to properly greet a noble woman. Did he bow? Or was that just for the Queen? Did he kiss her hand? The Baroness saved him by drawing him into a hug as well. 

 

“A pleasure to meet you, Paul.” 

 

Paul bowed slightly, still taken aback. “The pleasure is all mine, Baroness.” 

 

Soon after that, the Lady had had to leave to entertain other guests and George too had disappeared. Paul needed to go to the restroom but had no one to ask, he supposed he could ask one of the servants that were carrying trays but they looked stressed enough in his mind.

Carrying his glass of champagne, he left the ballroom and started to walk down a wide hallway, stopping every so often to gape at the paintings that hung in the walls. Some he recognized as famous works of the greats, but others were unknown to him, still he could see the style of the Baroness’ husband and his signature at the bottom. They were odd, some even downright macabre, but they were artistic and new, very refreshing to Paul’s eyes. He was walking and admiring a long painting when he bumped into someone and spilled his barely touched champagne. “Oh,  _ shit _ .” He let out and immediately stepped back, “I’m sorry, I was distracted-”

 

“Don’t worry about it, mate.” A scouse accented voice told him.

 

Paul looked up and nearly died right there and there. It was the husband! The husband of the Baroness! And the front of his tuxedo was now covered in a champagne stain. “I, Baron! I am so sorry-” But he was interrupted by the other’s laughing and frowned, “Erm, Baron?”

 

John was doubled over, giggling his guts out. “I’m sorry, it’s just I can’t-” And he was off again. 

 

Paul, meanwhile, if anybody gave a damn, was panicking intensely. The nobleman looked about to fall to the ground and Paul  _ did not _ wish to be found at the scene of the crime. 

 

Finally, John shut up and straighten up. “I not a  _ Baron _ . I’m an artist.”

 

Paul frowned endearingly, “Oh, but you’re-”

 

“Married to Anne, yes. But she’s the noble, I’m just the stray.” He shrugged. 

 

Paul nodded like he understood, “Oh, I see. Still, I apologize about your shirt.” He said sheepishly. 

 

John shrugged again, “So am I.”

 

Paul noticed that he too was covered in champagne, great. 

 

Chuckling at the other’s annoyance, John said, “Come on, I’ll give ye a shirt to change into.” 

 

Paul looked up, “What?”

 

“Well, I can’t go out there like this, the Lady would kill me. And I don’t suppose you want t’go back there like this either.” John turned around and started to walk towards a staircase, “Y’coming?”

 

Paul stood there for a moment but soon followed after the young man. 

 

* * *

 

“Here, this should fit ye.” John said as he offered a white button-up, “We’re close in size.”

 

Paul took it gladly, “I, thanks.” 

 

John smiled widely at him, “You’re welcome! Bathroom over there if you want some privacy.” He wiggled his eyebrows. 

 

Paul blushed and headed to the gestured doors without a word. What was happening to him? He usually wasn’t this thrown by others mild flirtations, if that was what was going on here, after all, and he wasn’t very modest about it, Paul was very handsome. 

 

He gaped at the bathroom around him, it was huge! H U G E. Frankly, it was a bit ridiculous how big the tub was. Still, it looked lived in. There were drying paint brushes next to the sink next to some dirty sponges. A t-shirt was laying on a chair next to the tub and there were at least four pairs of shoes laying on the floor. It was clearly John’s bathroom, there wasn’t much of a woman’s touch, except for a vanity with various powders and face brushes like the ones Dot had. Thinking about it, the young man’s face had seemed slightly made up, despite the paint stain on his neck. Paul frowned, he’d never met a man who wore makeup before. 

 

He changed into the much higher quality shirt and fixed his hair in the large mirror. 

 

He went back into the main room and paused when he saw a shirtless John standing next to the small bed, examining some clothes. Paul turned red, but was confused as to why. He’d seen plenty of his male friends shirtless before, but this was a stranger. A  _ very fit _ stranger. Paul shook his head, what kind of thoughts were those? John was a  _ man _ . 

 

Said man looked up and sighed in what appeared to be relief, “Here, which one is better?” He held up two shirts, one blinding white and another deep black. 

 

Paul noticed the man had changed his entire outfit, the black tuxedo gone and replaced with a burgundy one. Its looked really good on the man, Paul had to admit to himself. “I...the white one, definitely. What colour is the bow tie?” 

 

John put the white one down, “Same as the jacket.” He shrugged on the shirt and said, “Could you pass me that black vest then?” He gestured to a collection of vests laying in a comfortable looking couch. 

 

Paul grabbed the black one and passed it to the other man. 

 

“Ta.” John smiled as he took it. “You want a drink? Seeing as you spilled your last one.”

 

Paul looked down in shame, then said, “Shouldn’t we be heading back to the party?”

 

John groaned, “Nah, I’m tired of all the posh talk, aren’t you?” Then, in an accent, “‘How are your numerous states, Lady Beret?’ ‘Oh, just wonderful Duke Vomit, still exploiting the poor!’ ‘Oh, marvelous! Hohohohoh.’ Idiots, the lot of them.” Not Anne, she only had this manor to take care of, and she was a saint to her servants. 

 

Paul couldn’t hold back a laugh, he was certain he’d heard a conversation very similar to John’s made up one. “Yeah, I guess. A drink would be nice, thank you.”

 

John walked to his tumbler, “What’s your poison?” He’d borrowed that expression from Tommy during a meeting with some lawyers. 

 

Paul sat down in one of the only free couches, “I don’t suppose you have scotch and coke?”

 

John turned around with a delighted smiled, “Well, well, a man after my own heart.” He went to a cupboard, “I was hoping you’d say something along those lines, one can get so tired of the damn cognacs and armagnacs.” He poured them both a glass, “Ice?”

 

Paul shook his head and smiled when he got his drink. 

 

John sat next to him on the couch, “So, what’s your name, mate?” 

 

Realizing the two had skipped on pleasantries, Paul let out a laugh. “I’m Paul, Paul McCartney. I’m a friend of George’s.”

 

John nodded, “Oh? The gardener, right?” John liked the gardens, but he didn’t really like going outside much and so he barely knew George. 

 

Paul nodded, “Yes.” 

 

“Me, I’m John. John Ainsley.” He gave a goofy smile, “At your service.”

 

Paul smiled back, “So, you’re an artist?” He had to admit he was curious, “I saw some of your paintings, they’re marvelous.”

 

John’s eyes widened, “You really think so?” Hardly anyone complimented his art, apart from Anne, his few friends, and some art gallery directors who seemed more interested in money than his work. 

 

Paul nodded, “Oh, yes. Quite different from anything I’ve seen before.”

 

John was looked at the other man, “You like art?”

 

“I’m an art teacher at the Innie, the um-”

 

“The Liverpool Institute!?” John exploded, “I can’t believe it! I went there as a kid, and the art teacher was utter shite.”

 

Paul burst out with a chortle, “I, yes. Mr. Ferry was...yeah, I suppose he  _ was _ shite.” He took a sip of his drink, “And your parents? I’m sure they liked it.” His mum had always loved his own art. 

 

John’s smile fell and he tensed slightly but forced out a chuckle, “No parent’s to speak of, me. Grew up in an orphanage, Strawberry Field. I’m sure you know it.” Everyone did. 

 

Paul sobered up, “Oh, I’m...I’m sorry.”

 

John shrugged, “Not your fault, is it? Still, I think I’ve manage to do well.” He laughed. “Got an aunt tho, Mary Smith. Didn’t know she existed until I was old enough to leave the orphanage, but...she’s nice, I suppose.” He barely knew her, she’d showed up one day in his last week of staying at Strawberry Field and offered to pay his college education, feeling guilty about leaving him alone all his life. John had accepted, of course, he needed something to do once he was kicked out of the orphanage and if this lady wanted to help, then screw it. 

 

Paul nodded, but didn’t know how to fill the silence. 

 

John filled it for him, “I know what you’re thinking, ‘John is so awesome, how come he didn’t get adopted?’ Well, Paul, I got abandoned there by me mam when I was five and for the next few years refused to get with anyone.” He laughed sardonically, “I was so sure she’d come back, or my dad, either one. I wanted to other family. And by the time I realized they weren’t coming back, well…” He smiled self-deprecatingly, “Nobody wants to adopt some fat teenager with more issues than qualities.”

 

Paul was struck and for a few moments he didn’t know how to answer. When he did it was a simple, “I am sorry, John.”

 

The other man frowned, “No, I am. I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this at all, guess you’re just easy to talk to.” He smiled and Paul returned it. “More scotch?”

 

Paul nodded, “Sure.”


End file.
